


New Year's Snow

by sanguinity



Series: Briar [2]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, New Year's Eve, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: Bush and Hornblower celebrate the New Year.
Relationships: William Bush/Horatio Hornblower
Series: Briar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618618
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	New Year's Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldenhart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/gifts).

> For goldenhart, who prompted New Year's Eve kisses. This is either one month late or eleven months early, but I trust you'd rather have it now than wait until 2021.
> 
> Thanks to PhoenixFalls for beta!

> It snowed on New Year's Eve, just as it had snowed last New Year's Eve when Hotspur had baulked Bonaparte's attempted invasion of Ireland.  
—_Hornblower and the Hotspur_

Shortly after eight bells, the expected knock came at Hornblower's cabin door — Bush often looked in at the end of his watch, even when there was no new report to be made, if he thought his captain might be awake. Hornblower had long since come to make a point of being awake.

"Come," he called, from where he lay reading in his cot.

Bush, snow on his shoulders and the hat tucked under his arm, let himself into the cabin. It must be snowing quite heavily for the snow to have gathered so, accumulating in the cloak's folds despite the warmth of his body. Bush's report was brief and contained no surprises — certainly nothing to warrant possibly disturbing a captain's sleep, and it gave Hornblower an odd glow of pleasure, to know that Bush was here for no reasons but his own. 

"And it's still snowing, sir," Bush finished with a quick grin, pleased about the weather, and Hornblower felt that old twist in his chest. But the twist of longing was only a memory: the briar had no hold on him now, because Bush loved him.

Bush loved him. Still, sometimes, that took Hornblower's breath away, even in the absence of the briar.

"Just like last year," Bush continued, still grinning.

Today was December 31st — no, first watch was just finished: it was January now. New Year's Day. Last year, too, it had snowed on New Year's Eve, during that midnight battle in the Goulet against Bonaparte's invasion fleet. Dawn had revealed  _ Hotspur _ white with snow against the dark water. Bush, dark and dirty with gunsmoke, had grinned as he wished Hornblower a happy new year.

"Happy New Year, William," Hornblower said now, and was blessed to see Bush's face, ruddy with cold, broaden in genuine pleasure.

"Happy New Year, sir," Bush said. "May 1805 bring you fame and riches, sir."

That was so like Bush, to hunger for fat prizes and accolades in the  _ Chronicle. _ Hornblower's own wishes were more modest: to do his duty, to earn the respect of his superiors, and — more selfishly — to keep Bush free of the briar's clutches. He might lose Bush in battle someday, but never,  _ never,  _ God willing, to his own unfeeling carelessness. 

"And you as well," he returned, feeling like the worst sort of hypocrite, but unwilling to dampen the happiness in Bush's eyes.

"I like my chances, sir. I serve under the best commander in the Fleet," Bush said, utterly sincere in his loyalty. But that was Bush through and through: he loved Hornblower with a fierce loyalty that admitted none of Hornblower's many faults. Someday Bush would see Hornblower for the man he truly was, but until then… Until then.

"Come here," Hornblower ordered, touching the edge of the cot.

"I'm all snow, sir," Bush protested.

"Never mind that, come here. There, now," he said, as Hornblower shifted to balance Bush's weight on the edge of the cot. The cold poured off Bush's cloak, dispersing the little pool of warmth that had grudgingly accumulated around the lamp. Hornblower reached to take Bush's chilled face in his hands, and Bush, always alert to Hornblower's wishes, leaned forward to meet him.

Familiarity had not dulled the pleasure of kissing Bush: for two seconds the world was quiet, containing nought but the warm pressure of Bush's lips and the cold tip of Bush's nose against his cheek.

"Happy New Year," Hornblower said again, and watched Bush blink rapidly in pleasure.

"Happy New Year, sir," Bush said, his eyes shining with feeling. Again Hornblower was struck by how absurd it was that Bush should love a man like him — and yet Bush did, sincerely and wholeheartedly.

"Here, this is for you, sir," Bush said, opening a mittened hand. Hornblower laughed to see a snowball there.

"And what am I to do with this?" he asked, taking it from Bush's hand. The ice was startlingly cold against his fingers.

"Whatever you like, sir. The midshipmen had a battle earlier, Cummings and Cheeseman versus Orrock and Foreman, with the powder boys arrayed to each side."

Hornblower had heard the shouting, but had not wanted to come on deck and ruin the fun.

"Orrock?" he asked, and Bush shrugged diffidently. Orrock had been midshipman of the watch, officially too busy for such games, but it seemed his lieutenant had a soft heart somewhere under that iron exterior. Well, a soft heart with someone other than Hornblower — Bush was nothing but tenderness with Hornblower. "Who won?"

"Cummings and Cheeseman," Bush pronounced. "Sly quick-footed deviousness over seniority and brawn."

"They'll pay for that victory," Hornblower predicted, and Bush laughed. 

"Very likely."

Hornblower smiled again, imagining the battle. Bush would have watched loftily, of course, as aloof and austere as befitted a lieutenant, and yet in some secretive moment he had scooped up and molded a handful of snow to bring to his captain. 

Hornblower fingered Bush's cloak; the snow was slowly melting, droplets beading on the wool.

"I should send you back to your bed. You have morning watch." Four hours of sleep was little enough, and the  _ Hotspur's _ demands on Bush's time came before Hornblower's.

But Hornblower had been weak enough to betray what he wanted in his words, and Bush seized upon it. "I'd rather stay, sir, if I'm welcome." His expression was expectant, with every confidence that his petition would be accepted.

Hornblower gave in; indeed, if he had intended to send Bush away, he would simply have done so. It was nevertheless more satisfactory to grant a boon than to give in to his own wishes. "Very well. The guard knows where you are, if you're needed. Now get rid of that cloak before you drip on me."

Bush beamed and stood to remove his cloak. Hornblower put his book aside and lay down in his cot, watching as Bush doffed and put aside his clothing, folding it neatly for when it would be wanted, a little less than four hours from now. Bush moved quickly in the chill of the cabin, his shirt hanging long and loose, but Hornblower could still admire the strong curve of Bush's hamstrings, the muscled knob of his thigh. He did so, unashamedly.

"Shall I get the light?" Bush asked, and Hornblower nodded, greedily taking one last look at Bush—

Darkness. Bush's feet on the decking. The sway of the cot as Bush tested it. Introducing a second body into the cot was a ticklish business, calling for careful timing from them both, but the manoeuvre had become well-practiced, and in a moment Bush was settling himself under the covers, his body tucked close against Hornblower's.

Hornblower waited until Bush settled himself, then ran the snowball up Bush's bare thigh.

"Sir!" Bush exclaimed, jerking in surprise; the cot corkscrewed in response, twisting on a new axis. Then Bush laughed and his body deliberately relaxed into an expectant tension, letting Hornblower have his own way; any assault Hornblower made now, Bush would endure patiently, simply because Hornblower wanted it. It was heady, Bush's misplaced trust, and it made Hornblower want to indulge in petty cruelties.

"I should have realised what you would do with that, sir," Bush said in affectionate good humour, and only twitched slightly when Hornblower deliberately let the snowball rest on his hip. In a moment Bush squirmed. "The water tickles, sir."

If Hornblower persisted, soon Bush would be lying in a puddle of cold water, but Hornblower's cruelties did not extend so far as that.

"Raise your shirt. No, higher than that." This time Hornblower ran the snowball across Bush's nipple, and heard him hiss satisfyingly in response. Hornblower leaned in to kiss his nipple warm again, and Bush murmured his praises. Again the snowball; Bush jerked, his inhale quick. Again Hornblower kissed it warm, licking up the trickle of snowmelt, and Bush sighed. Hornblower stealthily applied the snowball to Bush's other nipple even as he continued kissing the first, and the praises became quiet swearing. But still Bush did not fight him. Hornblower toyed with the snowball and Bush's body as whim and curiosity dictated — deliberate cruelty tempered by tender mercy twisted once again into petty cruelties, until Bush writhed under Hornblower's touch and babbled nonsensical devotions under his breath.

At last Hornblower had exhausted what entertainment the snowball could give him; his fingers were frozen through and cramping with the cold. He sat up and twisted away from Bush, dropping the remains of the snowball into the empty tumbler that stood abandoned beneath the cot.

Bush's entire body went soft with relief. "Sir," he said, the syllable warm with pleasure as he rolled toward Hornblower—

Hornblower grasped Bush's cock in an icy hand.

Bush spasmed, choking on his own breath; the cot twisted, abruptly knocked out of sync with  _ Hotspur's _ rhythm. Bush doubled over Hornblower's hand, his own hands coming up to clutch at Hornblower, rigidly holding him in place, but not obstructing him in any way.

Deliberately, Hornblower frigged Bush's cock.

"Oh, please sir, please!" Bush begged, his body twitching and jerking like one of Galvani's frogs. His cock was rapidly softening in Hornblower's hand, the methodical frigging torture twice over, and yet he still made no move to push Hornblower away.

"Please, sir!" he begged again, and suddenly crushed Hornblower to himself, catching his mouth in a desperate kiss. Bush was always like this, pulling Hornblower closer when he should be pushing him away, and Bush's submissive frenzy made Hornblower wild. He bit at Bush's mouth and pushed him flat to the cot, clambering over him. The cot swayed crazily, almost dumping them both, but somehow Bush summoned enough presence of mind to correct the trim. Still he clutched Hornblower to himself, even as his cock shrank from Hornblower's icy touch, and it was suddenly too much for Hornblower: he slapped himself free from Bush's hands, stretching up in the darkness to search for the small bag of possibles that hung from the ropes of the cot. He fumbled out the jar of slush by touch and curtly ordered Bush to spread his legs; Bush did so, and Hornblower slapped a handful of the slimy, pungent stuff against the inside of each thigh; it almost required more concentration than Hornblower had to put the jar aside where it would not spill over the bedding. Bush needed no direction to draw his sack up out of the way and lock his ankles together; his hands dragged at Hornblower's hips, pulling him into alignment with him. And then Hornblower was sinking into the slick warmth between Bush's thighs. Hornblower redoubled his grip on Bush's cock and pushed himself home again; Bush clutched at Hornblower, his body tight and straining, giving himself up freely. 

Hornblower was clumsy with passion; he had to release Bush's cock to grab the cot's ropes to steady himself; in his twisting, he made Bush flinch and cover his sack with a protective hand. But at last they were positioned so that Hornblower could rut with abandon. Bush's iron-strong arm wrapped Hornblower's shoulders, while Bush groaned and whispered encouragement into his skin.

When at last Hornblower's climax overtook him, Bush held him close and rolled him to the side — again the cot swayed crazily, and Hornblower grabbed for the ropes. Bush kissed him, short, desperate kisses, still hungry with passion, and Hornblower did the best he could in his muzzy state to return Bush's kisses. 

"May I, sir?" Bush asked, and at Hornblower's murmured permission, Bush wiped some of the slush from his thighs and took himself in hand, his shoulder tense and juddering under Hornblower's cheek as he saw to himself. Hornblower wished for a light so that he might see Bush's face; he had to content himself with the sound of Bush's hand, the taste of Bush's sweat, the strain of his body. But despite the dark's shortcomings, the dark was curiously freeing, too: "Please, sir, tell me—" Bush choked out, and Hornblower whispered to Bush all the depravities he wished to commit against Bush's body, all the petty cruelties, all the ways he would test and try and torment Bush's patience. Bush turned his head away, his breath suddenly sibilant and constricted, and Hornblower knew from long experience that Bush had taken his other arm between his teeth in an effort to be silent. Bush came with a grunt and a muffled groan; Hornblower kissed and petted him, and whispered how pleased he was with him. 

At last Bush turned his head to kiss Hornblower, his kisses clumsy and uncoordinated; Hornblower kissed him ardently back, unable to otherwise express his gratitude to have Bush in his bed. And yet his gratitude did not stop him from surreptitiously feeling for the toothmarks in Bush's bicep: Bush would have a florid bruise in the morning, and Hornblower would be hard-pressed not to pinch it. 

"I don't deserve you," Hornblower whispered later, when Bush's breath was steady and deep beside him. He was thinking of all of his trespasses against Bush, both small and large, and how freely the loyal brute gave himself to Hornblower anyway.

But Bush was not asleep. "Can't get rid of me now, sir," Bush said against Hornblower's skin, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "It'd be our deaths if you tried, and what then of our duty to the Service?"

But it was not the thought of duty — nor even the fear of a lingering death — that kept Bush near Hornblower. It was devotion and loyalty — and yes, even love. Even after a year, Hornblower could scarce believe it possible. After all, what was a year, but more opportunity for Bush to know all the reasons that Hornblower should not be loved?

On the deck, the marine guard rang two bells. Bush tucked himself more tightly against Hornblower.

"I've robbed you of an hour's sleep," Hornblower said. "I should have sent you back to your cabin."

"Had to start the new year off right, sir," Bush said, sleepily smug at having gotten his own way. Then, "Try to sleep, sir," he soothed, as if it were Hornblower who needed to be awake at the change of watch.

Hornblower did not need to be awake, but Bush did; it would be only one more trespass to lie here and worry at him while he needed to sleep. Moreover, to worry about love, and Bush's errant folly in feeling it? Preposterous.

"Try to sleep," Hornblower whispered, and Bush chuckled against his shoulder.

"Only if you do, sir," he said, and the minor rebellion made Hornblower's heart flutter.

"Go to sleep, and that's an order, William."

He could feel Bush's amusement, but Bush restrained himself to an indulgent, "Aye aye, sir." Then, slyly, "Happy New Year, sir."

But Hornblower refused to indulge the game any longer. He lay stubbornly silent until Bush's breath slowed and deepened, until it began to rasp in the back of Bush's throat.

"Happy New Year, William," Hornblower said, taking Bush's hand in his to kiss it, and Bush said nothing at all.


End file.
